


rose flowered crown

by kit_marlowe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Everyone is goth, Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Multi, Pining, Slow Burn, So basically, Villains, also: BALLROOM DRAMA LEFT AND RIGHT, boy king x revolution leader, but like... i hate you so much pining, but more importantly, god this is genuinely a mess, i was gonna elaborate but do i need to, pining to kill you aka touch you in the process, theres a revolution in a kingdom, theres boys, winter is vampire coded
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28342563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kit_marlowe/pseuds/kit_marlowe
Summary: Heavy is the heart in my trembling right hand.Heavy is the dagger in my left.His blood drips ruby between my fingers . . .----It is midwinter, and Eranthis is falling. From the thinnest cracks to the darkest shadows, a rebellion starts quietly, and they call their leader Rosemonde. But what no one knows is that Rosemonde is only twenty years old. Rosemonde is a foul-tempered, gloomy boy whose parents have vanished, leaving him to a ghostly estate tucked in the densely wooded hills. He is Winter Havette, the son of a dead nobleman, and he will stop at nothing to see the boy king destroyed.Ava Valentin has claimed the throne since he was fifteen, and in the four years since, he has drowned himself in champagne and parties while Eranthis rots and whispers. He smokes drug-laced cigarettes to cloud his paranoia, and nurses a feverish addiction to blood magic that could get him killed--if Winter Havette does not kill him first.A vision of ravens and ice and soft, gentle death connects them both, as they spiral deeper and deeper into their own vices, and each other.
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10





	1. a vision of ravens

_**T** he waves tossed restlessly, gray_ and malevolent in the dreariness of the winter dawn. Traces of sunlight lapped at the dark water in golden pieces, flickering in a way that should have been dazzling and beautiful, but felt only wearying. Ava had been sitting on the beach since midnight. He didn’t want to admire it.

His cloak was fur-lined, the hood drawn over his head, but he shivered regardless—the middle of winter brought the kind of cold that killed. The kind of cold that extinguished any thought of warmth, any memory of it. The kind of cold that never quite left. So, Ava shivered. His fingers, half-frozen and trembly, left bloody prints on his cigarette as he took a drag. But the smoke did little to calm him, warm and familiar as it was, almost like a friend. Better than a friend. Cigarette smoke didn’t comfort through half-hearted words and a tilt of the head and a touch on the arm.

Ava exhaled a long breath, clouds of smoke and mist spiraling into the air from his lips. The blood on his fingers was his own.

The beach was hardly a true beach at all. Not one suitable for lounging on soft sand in the sunlight. It was only a small, rocky strip of land at the foot of the cliffs behind the royal palace, usually swallowed completely by the tide. Ava gazed into the rising sun, and felt his eyes sink shut, while the waves crept slowly closer.

It was long past time to give up.

But to give up would mean he would not be soothed, because there was nothing that could soothe him. Nothing but answers, and he had none. All he had was the dream.

It was the dream that had woken him quarter past midnight, and it was the dream that came back now that his eyes were closed again. Ravens. Snow. And a boy—rather, a young man—with curls of blond hair so pale it was neatly white. Like ice.

Sticking the remainder of his cigarette between his teeth, and allowing his eyes to blearily open, Ava rose. His boots crunched against the stones and fragmented shells underfoot as he wandered closer to the water until it washed around his feet in the shallows. He crouched, and stuck his hands into it.

The blood had leaked from the cuts on either palm that had now stopped bleeding, but still stung when they met the saltwater. His palms were always so much more of an annoyance to use than his arm, healing reluctantly with lots of whining about it, but in times of channeling the most power, they felt important. Grounding. A sort of centering.

He scrubbed his hands together as deftly as he could without reopening the tentatively healing wounds. The cold ached, and began turning his fingers numb within seconds.

He stood again when his hands were clean, spare perhaps his nails, long and oval-shaped. It was harder to get the blood out from underneath them once it had started to dry, and he really didn’t want to risk frostbite trying. He stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and flicked it into the water.

Ava started back up the beach, and wondered again if the dream was a vision. It had to have been. It _felt_ like a vision, although, it wasn’t as if Ava knew precisely what visions felt like, as he had never considered himself a prophet. Only a blood mage, which was even worse. Besides blood, the ritual had required moonlight and seawater and had done nothing but waste his time.

Farther down the beach, the cliffs sloped enough that one might pick their way up to the grassy meadow above—even a horse could be taken along the incline, which Ava had done many times. But today, he was alone as he trudged back up to the world above, where past the frost-dead grasses that came up to his knees, the city spread out before him.

Salvya. It was the capital, despite the filth and destruction that had become of its Second and Third Crescents. But this was the First Crescent, the smallest and innermost portion of the vast city that fanned out around the seaside royal palace. It was home to finery and gold and the most well-dressed of all the citizens of Eranthis. It, like the Second Crescent, was walled off, in order to keep the lower classes out. Or to keep Ava in.

His cloak was made of richly embroidered black silk, and with it, he hardly stood out among the wealthy. In fact, he even looked drab compared to some, with his brown hair worn plain and tumbling out from under his hood and over his chest. He didn’t look particularly like a king.

Which was disappointing, he supposed. Ava was nineteen, and a blood mage, and a king that didn’t even look very much like one.

A king prone to sneaking out of the palace unnoticed. He was good at sneaking. He was good at secrets.

The buildings of the First Crescent rose tall against the sunrise-tinged sky, mostly white, many-windowed masterpieces. On sunny days, most windows shone iridescent, and the cobbled streets would glimmer. Streets that were never empty, streets that were already filled with people despite the early hour. A dazzling, sleepless city. No one looked at Ava.

He walked among the snorting horses with their clacking hooves pulling carriages, the bicyclists whizzing past, and those who were tucked into their hats and scarves as they plodded along. Salvya was Ava’s home, and Ava was Salvya’s captive since birth, another wicked gem in the treasure hoard.

Up ahead, it seemed a crowd had formed in the square. It wasn’t unlike the aristocracy to be drawn to some spectacle; often musicians or dancers or otherwise performed, but those performances were almost always approved by Salvya’s councilor, Lord Faire, through whom Ava would have heard of it. And they were never scheduled at dawn.

There was not music. There was shouting.

They were all watching a girl.

She stood among the marble sculptures on a platform in the center of the square, her voice carrying loudly in the cold morning. It bounced about, striking the buildings and coming rushing back. And she looked like a shadow among the sculptures, dressed in black, with long, dark hair caught up in the wind.

Ava didn’t consider himself generally to be an idiot, but his curiosity was undeniable. From the outskirts of the crowd, he watched.

“Damn him to the finest grave in the darkest realm—a fitting abode for a diabolical wretch!”

It sounded like a line from a play. She delivered it while grinning.

She looked in her twenties, with bright eyes. She was tall, and for a moment, she seemed to mirror the marble woman behind her. A hand on the hip, a leg forward as if ready to bolt, or fight.

“Damn him, aye!” she shouted on. “May the most terrible of angels all rise from whatever shadows they lurk to ensnare him in grasps most wicked! May they spirit him away somewhere most foul, somewhere made for mortal suffering! Damn him!”

How long had she spent rehearsing? She was a fine actress, although there was something missing.

“Damn him!” several voices in the crowd agreed regardless. Perhaps she had planted them there.

But the whole crowd seemed… entertained. They were not brimming with hatred, not despising whoever the target of this speech was as much as whoever penned it must have. Ava didn’t think the girl had written it herself. She lacked the fire, even as she raved. It was, clearly, an act. But why? Was this some sort of unscheduled performance? Fiction?

“We must do something,” said the girl, as she slung an arm around the shoulders of a statue, “before we are all dead in his streets. Or carrying out the rest of our lives as his slaves! Is that not what we are, now? Do we not bend to his whims as he pretends to give you little freedoms? As he makes examples of the peasants, so that you might fear stepping out of line? We are mere pieces of art in his collection. Mere props on his great stage. So, let us create a different play.”

Her grin widened. She had very white teeth for being dressed in such simple clothes. “Rosemonde will rewrite these foolish mistakes. Rosemonde will be our savior! Rosemonde will destroy the boy king!”

Ava lifted his eyebrows a fraction, and realized this was not fiction at all.

Who was Rosemonde?

A sudden wave of claustrophobia washed over him, while the citizens on every side watched as the girl preached treachery—and they were all agreeing with her.

No. No, they did not agree. There was no way that the highest aristocracy of the _First Crescent_ would support such rebellious madness. They must have been simply enjoying the spectacle out of cruel mockery…

And yet, it was a spectacle, indeed. It was real. And it was about him.

Many—if not most—across the kingdom thought ill of Ava, and he was not blind to it, but he had never expected this. It had never mattered. Whether these fools agreed with the girl or not, whether she was merely enjoying acting the part of the valiant rebel or not, _someone_ had written the speech. It had come from somewhere.

The name Rosemonde was known best as that of a famous, centuries-dead writer whose plays were still often performed. Why choose such a name? Why do this at all?

Ava took a step backward, heart fluttering, only to stumble into someone behind him.

“Watch it, boy,” the man hissed, elbowing him away.

Wide-eyed, Ava tried to fight his way back through the crowd, but it had grown around him, thick and pressing. Was he meant to shove people to the ground, in order to escape? That would be barbaric. He didn’t want to attract any attention in his struggle. But this was like swimming against the current, and his pulse was beating loudly between his ears, and faintly, there was heat rising to his fingertips.

Magic. Forced through his veins like blood.

He started at the sound of a gunshot ringing through the air, and then the crowd was all at once in commotion, everyone moving to disperse from the scene, not unlike fish in a frenzy. Ava should have felt relief. Something stopped him.

A score of the men-at-arms, on their sleek horses, in their coats of deep violet and gold, were slicing through the crowd like ships through ocean waves. They were known officially as the King’s Men-at-Arms, the most skilled of soldiers sworn to protect the capital city—the king—from dangerous criminals. More shots were fired, and traitors were being shackled left and right. And all Ava could do was watch, eyes darting about the scene, until he realized that he was searching for the dark-haired girl.

Ducking around the sculptures, she laughed as she leaped from the grasp of one of the men. And then she was jumping from the platform, and running.

Escaping.

Ava ran after her, boots striking against the cobblestones, his breath thick in the cold air. The girl raced down a tight alley, and he raced behind her, fumbling within his cloak for his pistol, the one strapped to his thigh. She would not get away. He could only assume she was not Rosemonde, who was perhaps the leader of this madness, but she was no doubt a problem.

Ava chased her to the docks. The waves crashed together, dark and churning. The girl had nowhere to run, and while he half-expected her to dive into the frigid sea, she came to a stop at the end of the planks, turning her breathless grin onto him. Her face was flushed from the cold.

“Well, you’ve caught me,” she said. “What do you want? By the sound of those fancy little boots, I thought you were one of the men-at-arms. By the sight of your gun, I think I shall not trust you, anyway.”

Ava made a sound of disgust, annoyance rising. “Who are you?” he spat, raising his pistol. It was ivory and bejeweled. Clearly fine. If nothing else gave away his identity, the pistol, along with the rings on all of his fingers, had the greatest chance.

But if she did recognize him, she made no indication. “You ought to get out of here,” she said, “before you get hurt.”

Suddenly, she had a gun raised and trained on Ava’s face, too.

He did not lower his. “Who are you?” Firmer.

“You mean you couldn’t tell?” she said. “I’m part of the revolution.”

Ava’s gaze didn’t leave her face, even as several others joined them on the dock, surrounding the girl on all sides. The men-at-arms. Their guns were all on her, but Ava didn’t lower his because all he could think of were her words. They echoed, thunderous, around his head until he felt faint.

_I’m part of the revolution._

“Your Majesty,” said one of the men, a gloved hand landing on Ava’s arm. “I beg you return to the palace at once. The streets are not safe.”

_The revolution._

“Unhand me,” Ava heard himself say vacantly.

The hand fell away, but he hardly noticed. He couldn’t bring himself to move. Only to stare at the girl who was staring at him with an insufferable smirk, unaffected by the revelation of his identity. He still did not know hers.

“What will be done with the traitor?” Ava asked, as iron shackles were secured around her wrists. She made no move to fight against them.

“She will be taken in for questioning, Your Majesty.”

That was not good enough. “Do not forget to kill her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if u have made it here thank u so much for READING!!!!!!! posting this is absolutely horrifying to me, a person who hates (fears) 2 share their writing when it isn't fanfic or poetry. i've worked on this novel (trilogy) for the past 7 years and its extremely close 2 my heart. i plan on updating every two weeks! ilu and i hope you enjoy reading!


	2. dead magic

_**D** awn gave in to morning_ as Ava was escorted back to the palace, taken by carriage up the long path past the gates and through the front gardens. He watched tiredly through the window, lace curtains shoved aside, as the large fountain bubbled icily, and a bird landed upon its stone ledge. The gardens were all dead, now, spare the shrubs and trees that maintained their dark foliage even in the coldest of months.

Ava leaned his forehead against the window until the threat of jostling his brain out of his skull became too much, and he straightened. As much as he wished to go inside and collapse into bed, he knew sleep would evade him, as it had for the past two nights. Ever since the dream.

_I’m part of the revolution._

Was it as dire as the girl made it sound? Small uprisings were not uncommon in Eranthis, springing up since the reign of Ava’s grandfather. But they were always promptly stomped out before they could get the chance to grow. They were never called revolutions.

How had that girl’s speech succeeded in the First Crescent, of all places? Ava hated the thought that it wasn’t mere peasants yearning for his destruction, for his blood to spill in the streets… It was the very people that lived in his jeweled city, perhaps even those that lived in apartments of his own palace. His home.

But why…?

Once inside, Ava lowered his hood and allowed one of the servants to take his cloak, while his primary guards swept in to get to work following his every step. He was now merely in a pair of black trousers and a shirt that billowed at the sleeves, tight to his wrists. He kept his palms hidden.

“Ah, there you are!”

Reverie was rushing toward him, wasting no time leaving him alone.

“I’ve been worried for hours. I sent searches for you all over,” she said. “Where have you gone? You always go about without any word or company at all—how do you manage it? It is terribly unwise, Your Majesty!”

“You question my wisdom?” he asked, tilting his head to the side, but he did not look at her. He didn’t particularly care. He mostly wanted to be left alone.

“Well—”

“Did you plan on telling me about the rebellion, or were you waiting for me to simply go out and attend a protest in my streets for myself?”

Reverie faltered. Ava was not usually furious with her, but fear was trickling through his veins, humming like a low fever. A quiet sickness. He didn’t pause to wait while she collected whatever response, instead storming down the hall in the direction of his rooms. He wanted to sleep before it was the afternoon, even if the attempt would surely be made in vain.

“Your Majesty, I apologize,” Reverie said as they ascended a staircase, multiple footsteps clicking against the polished marble.

She was Ava’s only friend, even if he was acquainted with many pretenders. But Reverie was the only one who remained loyal, the only one to whom he could tell anything, the one who knew everything. And she was his sole advisor, after it was revealed the four others had been working against him at the start of his reign. They had underestimated him, thinking him merely a stupid boy, fifteen years old at the time. They had hanged.

Without a doubt, the revolution was underestimating him, too. That girl on the docks had. She would be killed for her crimes, likely before the day was done.

Ava whirled around to face Reverie once they reached the doors to his rooms. Her pale eyes went wide. “Your apology means nothing to me,” he hissed. “The people are _rebelling._ Not only the peasants in the slums. But the _aristocracy_ in the First Crescent! It is ridiculous. It’s outrageous!”

“It will be taken care of, Your Majesty,” Reverie said, and nodded her head in respect. The action disturbed a lock of her dark hair from where it was pulled up atop her head. “Have no doubt, I have been working for months to eradicate the—”

“ _Months?_ ”

“About six, actually. Surely, you have heard of Captain Gethin Grey. We’ve spoken of him numerous times during Council. Before, it was thought he was an outlier, but it’s become apparent he is merely a louder facet of something much larger. He is hard to pin down.”

_Captain Gethin Grey_ hardly mattered to Ava. He was nothing but a pirate keen on causing trouble. He was not Rosemonde.

“You’re wasting your time,” Ava said, impatiently. “He concerns none but the lowest branches of law enforcement, revolutionary filth though he may be.”

“Your Majes—”

“Who is Rosemonde?” he spat. “He’s their leader. I want him found and disposed of at once.”

Reverie took a breath, visibly taxed by this conversation. Good. “Of course, Your Majesty,” she said. “But I am afraid it isn’t so easy.”

“Oh? And why not?”

“Well, months ago, I began assembling a committee for the purpose of finding Rosemonde, though we have not come upon any substantial leads, yet—”

“What are you saying?”

“No one knows who Rosemonde is.”

Ava scoffed. This was ridiculous. He did not have time for the theatrics of some disgraceful man pulling Ava and those loyal to him around on a leash. He turned toward the doors to his rooms, and the guards at either side opened them.

“ _Find out._ ” He would not leave any room for discussion.

No part of this had been the way he wanted his morning to go, but at least when the doors to the room came shut behind him, he was finally alone.

He was left to the spacious sitting room, with its windows that stretched from floor to ceiling and allowed a view into the gardens behind the palace. The burgundy rug spread across the floor with intricately woven patterns, and a few chairs and couches, upholstered in powder blue silk, were arranged. Ava dropped onto one of the couches, resting his head on the curved arm and gazing up at the high ceiling, sculpted with floral motifs.

Months.

The revolution had been happening for _months._

And on top of it all, he was haunted by the dream. The vision. The prophecy. Snow and ravens and death… He wished he could speak to someone about it—he needed an oracle, except all of the oracles were dead. The kingdom had once run on magic, but magic had been eradicated long ago, and the oracles had all burned. He was severely alone.

Henri had been to Westgarth many times, and had dealt with many border patrols.

Little groups of soldiers were assigned to guard various points along the borders with Faveryn, though the kingdom was not an enemy. The task was most for punishment due to how boring and grueling it was, though that was not quite official. Still, the soldiers were never of the friendliest sort. Henri had partaken in border patrol many times, when he still lived in Eranthis. Before the move to the kingdom northward had become necessary.

He had been formally “banished” and whatnot, though that hadn’t stopped him from visiting often. But there had been one woman who had taken it upon herself to enforce his exile, three years ago…

Despite her, this visitation was necessary.

Despite her, Henri was dealing with an Eranthian border patrol, which meant several men on several horses surrounding him on all sides, all of them clad in metal armor. That was half the punishment in itself, really—it was worse in the summer.

Sadly, Henri recognized none of them.

“Surrender your weapons,” said the man apparently in charge. He had introduced himself immediately as Sir Gert in a very proud and official tone, as if a knight leading a petty border patrol was anything warranting pride.

“I have no weapons,” said Henri.

“You can skip the lies. I know exactly who you are, _Henri Mercerie,_ Great Mage of the Mountains. Exiled from your kingdom for _magic._ ” He spat on the ground near Henri’s feet. “No family, no friends. You’ve been living as an outcast in Faveryn! Probably on the side of the road somewhere.”

Well, that was unfair. Henri had bathed just that morning.

“I suppose you’ve found me,” said Henri. Two of the soldiers dismounted and moved in to secure shackles around his wrists behind his back, having to work around his furred gloves and coat. “But I’m sure this is unnecessary.” He nodded to the process happening behind him.

Of course, traveling on foot had been risky—but it had been better than traipsing over the guarded border on horseback, crashing through the woods and looking even taller than usual. Being horseless wasn’t good for escaping. He had only hoped it wouldn’t have become an issue.

Gert was going on about Henri’s crimes, and how he would be taken to the King’s Men-at-Arms in Salvya, where he would likely be executed some days later for disobeying his banishment. The banishment that had begun some twenty years ago despite his frequent visitations to the Havette estate in Westgarth.

Unfortunately, such casual visitations would have to end, seeing as Lord August Havette was dead. News traveled slowly when crossing kingdoms, but Henri was hardly far—near enough for a day’s journey on foot—and he had gotten word that very morning of the death. It had come in a letter written by Winter, August’s only son.

It had been devoid of emotion, devoid of any particular affiliation whatsoever, as if it was not the man’s son who had written the letter at all. Anyone could have sent such a report. _August Havette has died,_ the letter said, _on the sixteenth of January._

It was the eighteenth, today.

Henri half-listened to charming Gert’s threats, and then, deciding it was now or never, whispered soft, old words, and kicked hard at the ground.

The heel of his boot cut smoothly through the frozen earth, and with it, a low flame trailed for a moment before dissipating.

But in its wake, a great cloud of smoke exploded around them. The soldiers shouted in surprise, coughing in the struggle to breathe within the thick air, and Henri took the opportunity to wrestle away from those who held him.

He ran from the explosion, coughing just as much, with his wrists still shackled behind his back. He could get rid of those later. For now, he took deeper into the woods. He was at the border of Eranthis, technically in the Westgarth province, and it would not take long to reach the Havette estate. He would make it before nightfall.

Daylight aside, he did not have time for dealing with an arrest—August Havette had not died by any natural means. He had been murdered in the gardens of his own home. A poisoning. The estate was not safe, nor was the kingdom, at all. Not for the nobility. And Winter was prone to going out alone night after night, into nearby towns for whatever purposes of debauchery. It was quite possible he could find himself in trouble simply for being Lord Havette’s son. Henri had heard even in Faveryn that the rebellion in Eranthis was vicious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading! next up the chapters start to get about a mile long i am sorry . let me know any of your thoughts or feelings in the comments! ilu


	3. the painting

_**T** he funeral was held on_ the beach.

It had taken most of the day to ride out with the rest of the procession to the Westgarth coast, and it was late afternoon by the time the funeral began. Winter had been to funerals like this twice. It was a funeral for kings, the royal family, and the King’s Council. Everyone else just got buried in the ground.

The sky had been clear for hours, but now, clouds were beginning to gather more pressingly—soon to be the perfect weather for a funeral. Winter stood around the beach with the others, surrounding the body of his father, covered up inside of a small, slim boat by the shoreline. There were several other members of the noble families, and not to mention the rest of the Havettes. Really, Winter would have thought they wouldn’t have shown up. They had mostly ostracized Winter’s father.

They were all like a hoard of rats. It was like the worst faces of the entire kingdom had all come together. Everyone but the king himself, who was delightfully absent from the funeral of one of his councilors. He must have had more important plans.

Winter shut his eyes, as if to block out the sight. No one was paying him much attention, thankfully, and he managed to stand off to the side.

“There you are,” Isobel said.

When he glanced up, eyes blinking open blearily, it was to find Isobel standing with her arms folded over her chest, hood drawn up over her blonde curls. Her dark skirts and velvet cloak stirred in the cold wind.

“You poor thing. Look at you. Such a sad sight…” She reached up with a gloved hand to tuck his hair behind one of his ears. His hair was longer than hers, and a paler blond, although it was certainly less comely after his nightmare-plagued sleep and the ride here. He hadn’t wanted to take the carriage with Isobel. He had wanted to feel the wind. The dregs of January sunlight through the tall trees.

“You must be frozen. I know I am,” she was saying, pulling the hood of Winter’s cloak up over his head. She cupped his cheek, after. “I wish you hadn’t had to come here. How dreary it is…”

And he wished his father hadn’t been murdered. Alas, he was quite dead. Winter’s mother had found him so, out in the rose garden. The servants said he was leaning his head on the ledge of the fountain, as if asleep. They said his body was stiff with ice.

Winter’s mother had vanished, along with her trunks, before the day was done.

That was the talk of the entire kingdom. The Havette family was in charge of half of the Westgarth province, and Lord August Havette had been a member of the King’s Council. Scandal had risen immediately.

“Perhaps you can retire early when we return,” Isobel said, brushing something from his shoulder. “Or rest a bit in the carriage.”

Her voice trailed off into a whisper, because things were starting. Some important man Winter didn’t know nor had ever seen before in his life was giving some speech in an old language, while smoldering incense was waved over the body, while everyone listened and shed tiny tears.

Winter refused to weep. Everyone was doing it as if they would be smacked upon the wrist otherwise. He tuned it all out, and focused on the sound of the crashing waves, and Isobel’s familiar presence beside him. Two stable things.

“I had a strange dream,” he said softly.

But he ought not tell Isobel about any ‘strange dreams.’ Not Isobel, nor anyone. Because it had not been a mere dream. He and Isobel had been married a year and a half, and before even then, he knew of her distaste for magic, which included visions. Magic was illegal. Isobel was a conventional girl.

“A dream?” she asked. “Or do you mean, a _dream?_ ”

“Second one,” he answered quietly. He should not have brought it up. “It was of a boy. He was… dead.”

“Was he you?” Isobel murmured. “You really should take the carriage home, my dear. It’s too cold for riding, and it will be colder come nightfall. You’ll meet your doom like that.”

All of the ominous talking was over. The boat containing his father’s body was pushed out into the waves, and set alight. The flames engulfed it immediately, and Winter felt suddenly sick.

He turned away from the scene, where everyone was standing in utter silence paying their respects to a man none of them cared about. He supposed it was a spectacle. Not everyone was sent out to sea lit on fire. It was such an old tradition, and no one _really_ believed in the meaning behind it, anymore. But originally, it was said that when evening came, the angels of night would carry the deceased’s soul into the heavens.

There were thousands of skeletons at the bottom of this sea.

Winter pushed through the tides of mourners, shoving his way out of the crowd until he reached the tree line, Isobel following swiftly behind him. Her arm came around him, but he wanted to shake it off and run. Run and run and run…

“Your father was a good man,” she said. “Whoever did this will be found, have no doubt, my dear. They will pay for their crimes.”

He tuned her out, uninterested in whatever blithe condolences were to follow. He had been receiving quite enough of them. The trees looked skeletal, but for those that retained their dark needles, and in them a raven sat, preening its feathers.

A shiver ran over him as the dream rose again in his mind in cold images. He wished to bury it and forget it entirely, but he was quickly learning that would not be possible. It had worked its way into his blood.

His lips parted slightly. He ached to discuss it.

“You needn’t be such a stoic, you know,” she said. He looked up at her. And there she was. Familiar blue eyes, twin crystals. Cheeks rosy from the cold. Lips like petals, smiling. Had her smiles always been pitying, or was it a recent development?

“And so?” he muttered. “I will not collapse into some teary heap in front of that lot to appease them. They can say whatever they will. I don’t care what one of them thinks of me.”

He was August Havette’s son, the birth that had ostracized the man, the result of a last-minute marriage to a girl far beneath his standing who was already pregnant. Winter was a disgrace. He did not plan on dying as one.

“I must say, it is frightening knowing that a murder took place in the house.” In the gardens. “That a killer was lurking right beneath our noses! How ghastly. My nerves are all a scrambled mess.”

Winter’s gaze wandered past her, to the shoreline where there was a pillar of smoke rising up from the burning boat in the water.

“I mean,” she continued, “I know the servants have all been investigated, but how can one be certain, you know? It’s unsettling—”

“Isobel,” he said. “Please.”

The pitying smile returned, and she slid her arm about his shoulders. But he hated to be touched, and it hardly felt consoling.

“Of course,” she said, while he resisted the urge to pull away and run off. “Let’s not talk any more of it.”

When they arrived back at the estate, Winter dismounted and went to the carriage, where he extended his hand to help Isobel out. Her black-gloved fingers grasped his, a gentle squeeze as she stepped out onto the icy, cobbled path, a reminder that she was real, and Winter was not merely the only being floating, directionless, through the world.

By then, it was twilight, and the snow had started.

“Watch your step,” he said to her quietly, his breath fogging in the dark blue air.

He led the way. The big, white house had become something vacant, a great ghost dwelling among the Anemone Woods. Something that had once lived and breathed had now become a hollowed out shell. Corpselike.

Here, time seemed to stop, and everything that had once existed ceased, and drifted. Disappearing into the vast hills.

“My lord, my lady,” said the butler, Clément, in the foyer. Everything seemed to echo emptily, where once the subtle reverberation had been something familiar. “A guest awaits you in the west parlor.”

Winter paused in taking off his black cloak. A visitor? Had not the whole kingdom seen him that afternoon? He didn’t want to deal with company. Perhaps it was the king himself…

Clément led them to the parlor, opening the tall, white doors for them. Everything in the house was some pale shade—furniture of champagne silk, sandy chevron floors, gauzy-curtained windows and ivory wallpaper. It was the glowing epitome of wealth. The kind that amassed over generations and went to little else than the ghostly estate nestled in the woods.

In the parlor, there was a man sitting in one of the chairs, looking too large and rugged for such a seat and the entire room. He looked up from the porcelain, floral-painted cup of tea he held, and Winter watched him smile.

Henri wasn’t his uncle by blood, but he was his father’s closest friend, and had been a frequent visitor in the household until he wasn’t.

“My apologies for dropping by without any notice,” Henri said. He had picked up the faintest trace of a Faverysh accent over the years. Winter had never noticed before. Or perhaps more time had passed since he had last seen Henri.

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” Isobel said, going ahead into the room. “It’s very nice to see you, Henri. I’m afraid you just missed the funeral.”

Winter sat with a sigh on the divan beneath a stretch of windows.

The seats were arranged around a small table that had apparently been decorated with a few glasses of wine, of which there were two bottles, along with a pot of tea and the accompanying porcelain. A few plates of cheeses and pastries. Winter watched Isobel pour herself a cup of tea, steam curling into the air in ghostlike tendrils.

“Never have cared much for funerals,” said Henri, who smelled strangely of firewood. “I’m sure everyone was there.”

Isobel laughed lightly, the sound like bells. “Quite a crowd. The King’s Council and their families. Several of the Havettes…”

Winter gazed out of the window at the dark landscape beyond, lighting a cigarette. Normally, the large windows would be open, and there would come the fragrant scent of the gardens, and some of the guests would one by one start sneezing and asking about cats and whatnot. But the size of the windows only rendered the house colder whether they were open or not, and the flowers were dead.

“How are you faring, Winter?”

“This is funeral weather,” he answered. The snow continued to fall.

“How is Faveryn, Henri?” Isobel asked. “Quite cold, I can only assume. Though I suppose you aren’t so far… A day’s journey, at the most, yes?”

Had Henri come merely to check upon him? As if Winter would be some weeping mess after his father’s death? He felt a little frown twist his mouth.

“Indeed. It’s quite cold, deeper into the mountains, most definitely,” Henri said. When Winter looked at him again, it was to find him combing his fingers uneasily through his mess of dark hair. It was as unkempt as ever, reaching his broad shoulders. He was a large man in general, quite tall and incredibly muscled.

“I worry for the safety of the kingdom,” he said, while Winter leaned forward to pour himself a glass of wine. “Eranthis has had its turmoil for generations, but… this new rebellion… It seems—”

“Dangerous?” Winter didn’t let him finish. He didn’t want to hear it. He relaxed back against the divan, twisting the thin stem of the wineglass between his fingers and noting the way the candlelight shone on it. Smoke trailed from his cigarette into the still air.

“Dangerous, yes,” Henri said, and it was hard to tell whether he was more afraid for the safety of the revolutionaries or the aristocracy. “I dare say foolish…” Ah.

“I suppose you have better ideas, then,” Winter said. “You must think the king will listen politely to his citizens speak their sorrows. This is a last resort. This is to _make_ him listen.”

Henri’s dark eyes widened. “You support it?”

Winter returned his gaze to the snowfall. “King Emile is the reason you cannot set foot in your own homeland,” he muttered, “and now his son sits upon the throne, nothing but a foolish boy. Would you not revolt?”

The image of ravens rose foggily in his head, and a chill ran up the full length of his spine.

“I do not hold grudges through generations,” Henri said. “I only think this Rosemonde’s actions are a bit reckless. As if he is drunk on this game he is playing of anonymity. And power.”

Winter smirked, and tried to push the lingering taste of the dream from his head. He wanted to ask Henri if he had any idea how to interpret it, but something held him back. Some part of him was afraid to share it. Or ashamed.

Henri had no idea what Winter had done.

“So,” he murmured, “you disapprove of Rosemonde. I see.”

He sat up and reached over to set his wineglass on the small table. He took a drag of his cigarette, while Isobel said his name quietly. A warning he had no intention of heeding.

“Alas, I’m him,” he said, with an exhale of smoke. “I’ve started the revolution.”

“You _what?_ ” Henri gasped.

“Yes. The goal is to dethrone our sweet king.”

Henri was shaking his head, fingers shoved into his hair as he seemed to consider various words before he finally spoke. “Who… who would _replace_ him?”

“Anyone. I don’t care.”

Isobel was convinced Winter wanted the throne for himself, but the thought of ruling a kingdom was nightmarish. She could think whatever she wanted of him. Henri was staring at him with the most thoroughly aghast expression he’d ever seen.

“Winter. Lad. This is treason of the highest level—on such a grand scale! If word gets out, your reputation will not—”

“My reputation was ruined the moment I was born,” said Winter. “I’m rather unconcerned.”

“You will be killed.”

The words only ushered in a moment’s silence, during which they looked at one another until Henri seemed to realize just how little death mattered to Winter. Henri’s expression became unreadable.

“You would risk your _life_ for this?”

“To save the kingdom,” Isobel interjected, as if discussing the motives of a character in a play rather than her husband. “You must know the state in which the impoverished regions live. The suffering is truly a sad sight. They perish of hunger and cold, not to mention disease. It is a noble act to lead this rebellion.”

The _impoverished regions._ The very way she spoke was at times insufferable, always so pristine and polite. A fine girl raised by fine people.

Winter was hardly noble. He knew that.

But the poor did suffer, living in disease and squalor. And as for the aristocracy, they seemed to only see the king as a foolish boy to defeat for their own interest in grabbing more power. Or money. But they were all fools.

Henri was holding his head in one of his large hands, rubbing at his brow. “You… are Rosemonde.”

“We’ve achieved quite a following in the past few months alone,” said Isobel, as if she did anything to help the revolutionary efforts. “It’s increased exponentially even in the past week!”

If Winter were more desperate, he would have pretended she sounded fond of him.

“It remains in the early stages,” he said.

But the idea for a true revolution had been in his mind since he had accompanied his father to one of the meetings of the King’s Council in the royal palace. Winter had only been thirteen, then, and it had been the first—and last—time he could remember meeting King Ava and his brother.

Prince Maren, the eldest of the two, had been mannerly and insincere in the way of Isobel, talking confident circles and flashing white smiles. King Ava, a mere prince at the time, Winter remembered most distinctly as fine-boned and quiet, simply sitting obediently and toying nonstop with the ends of his long hair, the faintest sign of nervousness. He surely did not remember Winter. They had not interacted since.

Now, all the king did was waste his funds on endless luxuries and endless parties.

“Where is your mother?” Henri asked Winter, as if Aremine’s presence would somehow sway him.

“Oh, you’ve not heard?”

“She disappeared the morning of August’s death,” Isobel explained.

Henri’s brow furrowed. “I will admit… that does not surprise me.”

“The searches for her have been fruitless, so far. You haven’t heard the rumors then, no?” asked Isobel.

“Rumors?”

“Everyone thinks she killed him,” Winter said with a sigh, rapidly losing interest in this tediousness.

“Certainly not!” said Henri, immediately.

And Winter wanted to agree, but he couldn’t. Aremine had only ever treated her husband coldly, with constant lamentations of the house, the whole estate, and Westgarth in general.

He couldn’t recall a time she had ever shown her only son warmth, either. Rather, he could more distinctly recall her nonchalant way of reminding Winter he had nearly been born a bastard, that she would have preferred it that way, where she could have gone off into spinsterhood in peace.

She spoke disparagingly of Henri once, when Winter was seventeen, insisting he was never to set foot in the house again. It was the last time he had seen Henri until this evening.

He knew Henri had gotten into trouble with the law for magic long ago, and so his visitations were meant to be secret, but he never understood Aremine’s sudden rage. Despite allowing Henri’s exile from the estate, Winter’s father didn’t seem to hold the same scathing opinions as Aremine, and Winter liked his father more, so he would allow Henri to stay, tonight. Dinner would be soon.

He wouldn’t be surprised if Aremine was the murderer. No one would be, except for Henri, apparently. But what did he know? He had been gone for three years.

Winter stretched with a sigh, and then looked at Henri as he stood. It became apparent that he and Isobel had been speaking for quite some time, and Winter had not been listening at all.

“Why are you here, Henri?” he asked, probably interrupting. “Do remind me.”

Henri raised his eyebrows, looking up at him. “To make sure you are safe.”

Winter hesitated for only a moment.

“Fine,” he answered absently when the moment was over, making from the room.

On the second story of the house, at the end of the western hall, there was a room that was always locked. Winter was the only one with a key.

It was small and brass and used to belong to his father, but he decided to share the room with his only son and die, so now, Winter was the only one remaining with access. He looked at the key in his palm, dingy and familiar, the same as if nothing had changed even though everything had.

When he entered the room for the first time since his father died, he found that it was also the same. A cluttered mess, as no one ever came to tidy it, and things that did not get touched collected dust. Bookshelves lined two of the walls, full of old volumes along with baubles and trinkets, and another wall was taken up with long windows that allowed a view of the dreadful gardens beyond, where the flowers were all dead and gone from the frost.

In a corner where bookshelf met window was a heavy desk, strewn with papers and books and miscellaneous things not limited to two music boxes and a porcelain horse figurine. In a corner where bookshelf met bookshelf was a rocking chair, on which sat a stack of paintings rather than any person. Paintings leaned against the walls, or sat in piles on the floor, likely stuck tackily to one another with time.

Winter moved about the room to light all of the candles. And then floated to one of the windows, and with a bit of effort, pushed it open for the first time since the early autumn. Cold night air washed into the room, immediately making him shiver, but it was necessary to air the space. It smelled far too familiar, like dust and yellowing pages.

For a moment he stood, hands pale against the white windowsill as he peered out into the dark, snow-crusted remnants of the gardens. The snow had stopped for the most part, but a few small flakes still occasionally drifted.

The studio was his, now, but it would never not be his father’s.

By the window sat one of several painting easels. Winter pushed up the sleeves of his shirt, and stepped closer to it.

It would be scrying without a reflection. The image was already in his head, lurking, terrible and vivid. The dream. The vision.

He was going to make it real.

He got out the paints, even as his pulse rose uncomfortably. He painted often—it was one of the few things for which he still harbored some enjoyment. And it was better than lying around and listening to Isobel and Henri babble.

So, Winter painted.

And painted, as the flames flickered and the night crept on. The clearer the image became, the stronger his disconcertment grew. The heavier his revulsion.

The shadows stretched long and shivering about the room, as midnight turned into one, and two, and three, and when it was over, Winter was sitting on top of the desk a few paces from the easel.

He had set down the palette and brushes on a nearby table messy from years of having palettes and brushes set down in a similar manner. His hands were smudged with colors up the wrist, ivory and russet and gold. He drank from a bottle of wine, a slow pull. He had wanted to be drunk for this, but he had forgotten to start drinking sooner.

The dream stared. With vulgar horror, Winter stared back.

King Ava was lying dead in the snow.

He was lying limply, his long, chestnut hair resting about in waves over the snow and appearing almost to float. His eyes were open, green, but dull with death and gazing into Winter’s own. Keeping him pinned. He was dead, undeniably, and he was surrounded by ravens, stark black against the snow.

Winter studied him. The way his soft hair glowed golden even in death, the fairness of his skin like porcelain, the shadows beneath his eyes that marked him lifeless. The boy king.

Winter didn’t know why he had dreamed of King Ava, or what the dream meant. Or why he was too afraid to discuss it even with Henri. All he knew was that painting it had not provided any clarity, and he didn’t want to consider it any longer.

He stood and padded nearer, his fingers clenching into fists at his sides and aching to rip the drying canvas to shreds, to scratch the tacky paint up under his fingernails until the image was unintelligible.

But he didn’t. He picked up a fistful of brushes and flung them, scattering, across the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for reading and taking a chance on this story!! <3


	4. the witch and the pirate

_**I** sobel plucked a rose petal_ from the glassy surface of the bath, the following afternoon. Her other arm rested on the ledge of the clawfoot tub, fingertips trailing through the water that was, at that point, growing tepid. It smelled of roses. Like a garden.

Her husband sat opposite her.

Isobel looked at Winter, and wondered how it was he could be so… terribly himself. Sometimes he annoyed her by doing nothing at all, and it was perhaps his doing nothing that annoyed her the most. She wished he would pay her more attention. Even sitting in the same bathtub as her, there was some cold distance she felt lying between them. Within the water, their legs were touching, resting together, but he didn’t quite seem to find it intimate.

Winter’s hair, normally messy and made of loose curls, was wet and slicked away from his face, trailing in pale loops and ringlets over his shoulders and chest, and a pair of wire reading glasses balanced on the bridge of his nose, which was very straight. There was an almost feminine beauty about him, in perhaps the sultry curve of his lower lip, or in his skin which was almost soft like a girl’s. But he had a hard jaw and the body doubtlessly of a young man—smooth and taut, quietly defined with muscle from his training with a sword.

His blue eyes skipped back and forth as he read the book in his hand.

How long would it take for him to notice that she was staring at him in silence? It was only a few minutes more before Isobel realized that if he were to notice, he likely wouldn’t even care. She leaned her head on her fist. Winter reached for the glass of wine on the tray beside the bathtub, and took a sip without looking up from the pages. She watched his throat shift as he swallowed. And then she sighed heavily and tilted her head back against the ledge of the tub, staring up at the high ceiling of the bathroom.

He was probably still gloomy from the funeral. But he was always distant.

“Any word on your mother?” she asked, to rid the bathing room of the awful silence.

“No,” said Winter without looking up.

Well. “How is your _revolution_ coming?” It was all she could do not to sigh as she said it.

He had been working tirelessly, which was not an overstatement—she was quite certain Winter had not been sleeping properly. Whenever she wandered into his bedroom, she found him at the small desk across the room from the bed, or in his father’s studio, no matter the hour, and his exhaustion was showing more and more on his face. She knew he had been planning to start a petty rebellion against King Ava for ages, now, but she never expected it to be such an obsessive endeavor.

The necessity of bathing was the only thing that had convinced him to join her, now.

Winter set the book aside. “I sent out more speeches,” he said. “They’re being read to the commoners and the aristocracy both. Even in the First Crescent…”

“Wow. How did you manage that?”

“It’s all a matter of connections, I suppose… But it’s been tiring dealing with everyone.” He took off his glasses and folded them, placing them with the book.

“Do you not fear Rosemonde will be discovered?” He surely couldn’t imitate the prose of a peasant. Those that could even read…

“The king will never find out I am behind it,” he said. “Besides, I think they may be taking… creative liberties.” He sighed a long-suffering sigh, threading his fingers back through his hair.

“But doesn’t the Council meet tomorrow? Won’t you be afraid?” she asked. “I would be.”

Winter shrugged. “I don’t really care,” he said. “I don’t want to go.”

“Well, you must.”

“I don’t want to.” His mouth shifted into what was nearly a pout. “My father is not yet cold in his grave, and I’m expected to take his place so soon? Like I can replace him as if nothing’s changed?” He shook his head with a sound of disgust.

“You aren’t replacing him,” she said. “You are simply… taking your turn.”

“I hardly see the difference.”

“Well, I’m sure you shall not be the only one in grief. The other councilors knew him well, as did I, and Henri, and your mother.”

She watched the muscle in his jaw shift. “He was no one’s father but mine.”

He stood, then, the water pouring off his body and pooling onto the tile as he stepped out of the bath. Her eyes followed him as he padded across the green and white checked floor to grab a towel, wrapping it around himself, and then she merely sank lower into the water. She cupped a rose petal in her palm.

She didn’t see why Winter had started the rebellion in the first place, if not only out of boredom—or to prove simply that he could.

She wasn’t overly concerned, confident it would end soon. But these were nonetheless dangerous waters, and it all had her feeling nervous. If he were discovered, the punishment would be execution. And she did not want to be tried as guilty by mere association with his madness.

That, or she would simply be left a widow, which would not be so terrible, but she did care for Winter. She tried her best not to.

Just after dawn, Henri set off on horseback to Hellebore, the southern district of Eranthis. Hellebore was largely countryside, like Westgarth, but a few smaller towns existed within. Nothing as grand as Salvya—no, perhaps no city in existence was as grand as Salvya—but decently sized. Most towns across the kingdom had become slums, succumbing to the same fate as the Third Crescent of the great city. They had been slums when Henri was a child. They had been slums when Henri’s father had been a child. They had been this way since King Robier’s reign, the grandfather of King Ava. He had been a tyrant, the greedy son of the late queen, whose first commands were to undo all of his mother’s last.

Magic had unraveled. Across the kingdom, the mages that had not fled burned.

Within one of Hellebore’s towns, Henri would find an old friend.

The snow fell lightly from the heavy sky, swirling through the air like dust on the biting wind. He was thankful for the heavy fur coat he was wearing. The furred hat and gloves didn’t hurt, either.

Staying for two nights, now, in August’s home, was undeniably strange. Henri had visited and stayed so often, and it seemed that in the three years since, nothing yet everything had changed. Especially August’s son. Three years ago, Henri had known Winter to be quiet and reserved, yet also gentle and kind. He had been seventeen then, still a boy.

But Winter was now suddenly a man, married, with both of his parents likely dead. Any childlike softness had vanished from him, sharpening both his face and his limbs, as well as his tongue. His hair had grown twice as long.

It was only an hour of riding before Henri found himself in front of Enevére’s shop, where she lived in the room above. The building itself leaned a bit, as all of the buildings around here seemed to, clinging to one another for support like drunken comrades.

The shop was one of found things. Jewelry and gems, old maps and older paintings. Things worth fortunes—or, at least, said to be. Henri was sure some of the antiques were not, in fact, worn by Queen Camille, or from ancient royalty of Faveryn or some other kingdom.

Little bells chimed as he pushed open the door to the shop, sticky with frost.

Inside, it was just as he remembered, every available space filled with alleged treasures. A few other patrons browsed, while a boy sat behind a counter and presided over them. He looked bored, plaiting his hair. Henri thought that if he stole something, the lad would merely bat his lashes and look away.

But Henri was not interested in making questionable purchases today, stolen or otherwise. The whole shop reeked of magic. There was always some sort of scent that magic carried, to those who were attuned, and this particular brand of magic was thickly sweet-scented in a way that slapped one in the nose. He wrinkled his a bit and knocked on the door to the back room.

A few moments later, the small window in the door slid open, revealing a pair of narrowed eyes of black ice.

“Who demands entrance?”

Henri personally could not remember the password. “It’s me, Henri.”

“I see.”

The window snapped shut, and Henri listened to a series of locks clicking and whirring before the door came open.

“Ah, hello there!” Henri greeted Enevére, breaking the silent and mysterious atmosphere. The other patrons were staring. Enevére ushered him inside.

She shut the door behind them. She was older than Henri by at least thirty years, her graying black hair a bit scraggly and trailing long. She was wrapped in a threadbare olive robe.

“Henri Mercerie… It has been quite some time since I’ve seen your face. I thought you must have perished in those mountains you call home.” She was pouring two glasses of wine as she spoke, and then handed one to him. “Have a drink, why don’t you?”

Henri, who did not imbibe, took the glass. “Thank you.”

He watched as Enevére turned around to head over to a cushioned chair among the many plants in the room—plants grown by magic—and he quickly dumped his wine into one of them to his left.

“Ah, I am actually here on business,” he said. “I have need of you.”

Enevére took her seat in the chair, and raised a thin eyebrow at him. “What have you brought, lad?”

“I’m afraid it isn’t business of that sort.” There were a few other chairs where he could sit, but he couldn’t relax that much. “I’m wondering if you can help me find something. Or… someone.”

“Oh, aye? Who? And what do they owe you?”

Enevére was a member of the Guild of Mages, a group of a few who practiced magic from all corners of the kingdom, and with the right sort of spells, anyone could be tracked. Enevére was particularly skilled in tracking. Long ago, when she was still young—an unimaginable thought—she had apparently worked for King Robier. That was, until magic was outlawed and she disappeared, and now owned the antique shop under an entirely different name, Ivana, while wearing a big hat and speaking with a mysterious voice.

“Lady Aremine Havette,” Henri said.

“ _No_ ,” Enevére replied firmly. “No, absolutely _not,_ Mercerie. I shall not get involved with the crown again. Not even for a friend. Tell me, now, did that royal fool boy king send you? Or was it his rat of an advisor? I swear, she might as well live in his head the way she carries out all of his doings for him.”

“This is not a matter of the crown, nor politics,” he said. “Aremine is the mother of my best friend’s son—indeed, he is like a son of my own. Finding her may help solve August Havette’s murder, but my concern lies only in the peace of their family.”

Her eyes narrowed at him. “ _Winter Havette_ is like a son to you?” She shook her head with a low whistle. He wondered if she knew the true identity of Rosemonde. He also wondered how much trouble Winter had gotten himself into on a nightly basis that his name had taken on the connotations for being whistled at. “If I agree to have the Havette woman searched for, you must not tie me to it in any way.”

“You have my word as a friend,” said Henri.

“I’ve had far too many of those.”

“Then you have my word as a mage of the Guild,” he said. “Upon my life, my magic, my soul, I swear I want Aremine’s return only for the sake of her family.”

“That will do. Have you got something the woman owned?”

“Of course.”

From his coat, he produced the hat he had brought with him, trimmed with silk ribbons, and he offered it to Enevére.

“Ah. Very well, then. I shall get to work.”

“How much do I owe you?”

She waved her free hand. “Consider it paid for,” she said. “You are a friend, after all. How did you like the wine?” She nodded to Henri’s empty glass.

“From an expert vintner, to be sure. You must give me the name.”

The bitter cold morning was no surprise—winters in Eranthis were not as harsh as more northward kingdoms, but they were not mild, either. Usually, a member of the King’s Council would travel by carriage, the finest sort, drawn by four fine horses, maybe even more. But Winter had wanted to ride. He wanted the harsh wind to flush his face, he wanted the light flakes of snow to sting against his cheeks and cling to his eyelashes. His black coat was of wool, and not as warm as his one of fur would have been, or his cloak, but he had to look very pristine and proper for the meeting, and anyway, the shivers that wracked him kept him alert. Awake.

His hair whipped itself into knots. He had wanted to ride because he didn’t want anyone to know where he was going.

The Council did not meet until the afternoon, and it was still morning when Winter arrived in the slums of Salvya. If his father knew he was making illicit deals with pirates, he would likely be disappointed, and yet Winter was in the Third Crescent, by the sea, sliding from the saddle and tying up his horse outside a tavern frequented by sailors.

Wooden stairs led up to the tavern door, crusted with snow and ice, and despite the early hour, there were already people milling about them. They leaned against the frosted rails, or stood off to the side smoking and muttering to one another. Their gazes each followed Winter as he ascended the stairs, ignoring the shady characters and simply hoping the pirate he was looking for was inside. He wouldn’t be surprised if he wasn’t. He might be more surprised if he was.

Captain Gethin Grey was known notoriously as the bastard son of Lord Ceclyn Édouard gone rogue. He was also a notorious pirate, known for ransacking ships all across the sea, evading the law, and supporting the revolution to an outrageous degree.

He had once burned an Eranthian flag while standing atop the gates of the palace, violet fabric turning to ash—until the King’s Men-at-Arms had moved in to attempt arresting him. Which had not been successful.

Winter found him sitting at a table near the back.

It was a dark and dingy place, and Grey seemed to be sitting in the darkest and dingiest corner, boots propped up on the table, picking something out of his teeth with a lengthy thumbnail. The whole place reeked of stale alcohol and low tide. Hopefully, the odor wouldn’t cling to Winter when he met with the Council…

He approached the pirate’s table and stopped before it, reluctant to sit, reluctant to speak to him. This was not their first meeting. Unfortunately, it would likely not be their last. He watched Grey’s eyes flit up to his face, and then his plush lips smirked.

“Dearest Rosemonde,” said Grey, tilting his head. “You look cold.”

“Isn’t it a bit early to be drinking?” Winter muttered.

He was nothing spectacular. He was only a few years Winter’s senior, and relatively slight, with dark brown hair that reached his chin, hanging from beneath a large, black hat. His clothes were that of a nobleman, though ill-fitting and in poor condition. Slept in. Grey had not changed at all in the year since Winter had last seen him, though his hair was shorter.

Winter sat uncomfortably, and watched Grey remove his feet from the table and pour him wine from a bottle.

“Remind me,” Grey murmured as the wine flowed darkly, and he ignored Winter’s comment, “why you have summoned me to this establishment?” He wiped a drip from the bottle with his fingertip, then stuck the digit in his mouth to suck it off.

“Because you’ve not heeded my letters, so I figured I must speak with you in person.” Winter did not drink the wine.

“Oh, come now. I don’t toss them into the gutter as soon as I receive them. Besides, I haven’t received many from you at all, lately—I’ve not been ashore long, I suppose…” He smirk returned. “But it appears you’ve written far less since you had merely six months ago.”

Winter frowned, dread pooling. He had not come here to be mocked. And it was Grey who had first shown interest in Winter, the summer he had married Isobel. Grey should be the one embarrassed…

Though Winter still sometimes thought about their occasional meetings in dingy inns and taverns not unlike this one, cool breezes blowing in broken windows on summer nights, cooling sweat-damp skin. The summer breeze had turned crisp with autumn, and by the time the first snow fell, Grey had disappeared back to sea. He only received Winter’s embarrassing letters on occasion when he came to shore.

He was certain the pirate did not think of those times at all, and Winter ought to think of them less.

“I did not come here to discuss… the past,” Winter said, trying to hide his inherent embarrassment and perhaps failing. “I’ve come to discuss you.”

“Me?”

“Your lack of discretion concerning the current political state.”

Grey tipped his head to the other side, giving him the smile that had caused problems in the first place. “However do you mean?”

“You _know_ what I mean,” Winter hissed, leaning closer over the table, though he was perturbed by the fact that leaning closer meant indeed that they were closer. But that didn’t make him back down. “You make a mockery of the revolution. You act absolutely mad! How is the king ever to listen if you are shouting idiotic nonsense above every voice of reason? You must stop this.”

Grey arched one of his eyebrows. “Is that an order, Rosemonde?”

Winter only rolled his eyes, and hoped that no one was overhearing this. He hadn’t expected the pirate to come at all, let alone be on time—he couldn’t give up after making it this far. He opened his mouth to continue, but Grey spoke instead.

“You once wrote me letters praising what I do.” Winter’s jaw clenched. “Twenty-six of them. They only turned critical in the more recent months, as your heartbroken infatuation has turned into contempt. I see…” He felt his cheeks beginning to heat in embarrassment, which only angered him further. “I was drawn to you because you dreamed of starting a revolution. But now, you must admit that I am simply doing far better than you at leading it. I know it hurts. If you’d like, I can kiss it better.”

Winter’s hand moved before he could even consider it, reaching across the table and knocking Grey’s hat directly from his head. His eyes widened, a little laugh escaping his lips as Winter grasped him by the filthy lace of his shirt collar.

“You are _ruining_ the revolution, you fool,” he spat quietly, glaring. “Is it the kingdom you care for? Or causing problems in your father’s circles?”

“Oh, shut up. I am striking fear into the hearts of the aristocracy. Don’t be so dour, Rosemonde,” the pirate purred. “Is that jealousy I smell?” His grin widened. “What do you do for the revolution, really? You organize tiny protests and write everyone’s speeches, acting like the commander of an army. Or a poet. Do you truly believe the king will care about any of that?”

Winter tightened his grip. “The revolution does not cause chaos for _entertainment_ ,” he hissed.

“Then it isn’t much of a revolution.”

He made a sound of disgust, releasing the pirate with a shove back into the chair, and took his own seat properly again, seething.

“We are overthrowing the government—not simply destroying the kingdom even further. I could ruin you. I kindly recommend you stop this.”

“I kindly recommend fucking off, dearest.” Grey laughed, and stood from the table gracelessly, sweeping his hat up off the ground. “I believe we’ve reached an accord. You will continue to beg me to be more obedient, aided by empty threats, and I will point out that you have nothing to threaten me with, and then after an hour we’ll finally leave this horrible place. So I shall save us both time: _I_ will continue ruining the lives of nobles such as yourself, and _you_ will continue believing a revolution can be tame, until you’re killed for it. Good day, coward.”

He lifted a hand to muss Winter’s hair as he strolled from the table.

When Winter turned to protest, hands in fists, mouth open to argue back, he only found that the pirate captain had entirely disappeared. The tavern was once again filled merely with degenerate scum and stinking shadows. His heart beat heavily.

Perhaps Grey was right.

Winter had not come here to be swayed—he came to stop a madman. But… The revolution _was_ far too tame. It was obvious, suddenly. The king would not bat an eyelash at the speeches and mild protests but to snuff them out.

But the king wouldn’t care about the wealthy being terrorized along shorelines by pirates, either. Not even if they complained to him. Not even if his apathy made them hate him even more.

Winter stood from the table without having touched the wine poured for him, and made his way out of the tavern. Would the king care about anything? A knife at his throat, perhaps.

He left the way he had entered, stepping out of the front door and making to go back down the snow-crusted stairs that led up to it. Everyone was still lurking about, their gazes all once again turning onto him, regarding the strange nobleman in the Third Crescent.

He ignored them just as he had before, heading down the icy stairs, but his foot caught on something, and then he was slipping and falling rapidly to his extremely tragic and unfortunate demise.

But he didn’t quite fall, not fully, because before his ass could hit the stairs, he was yanked back by the collar of his coat just as he gasped.

He was suddenly face to face with a girl, and he couldn’t tell if she was smirking or sneering. His pulse thudded unevenly, limbs numbing from the burst of dread.

“I suggest you speak quieter, traitor,” the girl hissed lowly. He decided it was a smirk. “I have one demand of you, for saving you from mortal doom: let me in.”

“What?” Breathlessly. He didn’t tell her that he would not have _died_ from falling down a few stairs. He also didn’t point out the fact he was fairly certain she had tripped him.

The girl gestured with her chin behind her, then proceeded to grab Winter instead by the front of his coat and haul him down the remaining stairs. He stumbled after her, while the bystanders simply went back to whatever they’d been doing.

She released him when they reached the alley beside the tavern.

“I heard you speaking to that pirate,” she said. The snow fell lightly around them. “About the revolution. I heard him call you Rosemonde.”

“He may have.” There was no use lying. Winter adjusted his coat.

“Excellent. Let me in. Let me join you.”

She didn’t look nearly as strong as she apparently was. She had a rather long figure, standing about as tall as Winter, which was decently tall, with long, dark hair. She looked as if she were perhaps slightly older than him, though not by much.

“Alright…” he said, voice twisting mildly with confusion. “You may join the revolution… But you needn’t ask permission.”

“No,” said the girl. “You misunderstand. I mean, let me join _you_. I’ve _been_ existing as a petty rebel for quite some time, now. Just the other day, in fact, I delivered one of your speeches in the First Crescent square, though I’m sure that doesn’t concern you.” The smirk returned. “I would like to help you _lead_ the revolution. I have plenty of ideas.”

“I’ve no idea who you are,” he said.

“Of course not. You never bother involving yourself in the revolution, Rosemonde, rather you watch and command from afar, like a king who refuses to step into the battlefield.”

“I—”

“I am Robin Lorena. Rosemonde isn’t your real name. What is?”

He studied her. If he told her his true name, she could easily run off and spread the word, but it was doubtful that anyone would believe it. Did she mean this as some exercise of trust? Or did she simply want to know? Winter met her a mere two minutes ago, and he had no idea the kind of person she was—she could be working for the king.

She could be anyone.

“Winter,” he said.

Her eyebrows rose. “As in Havette?”

“Yes.”

“Is that so? I suppose you do have the hair to prove it.” Her hand rested on her hip, and Winter found a sword sheathed there. “How intriguing. A nobleman’s son leading a revolution. Do you not fear disgracing your family?”

“I was born a disgrace,” Winter said, and watched as Robin Lorena smiled more.

“As was I. We will get along well.”


	5. the palace and its boy king

_**T** he royal palace sat monstrously_ against the snow-gray sky, situated at the edge of a cliff that dropped into the sea behind it. Within the outer walls, gardens stretched out on all sides, finely manicured and dusted with snow. The palace itself was made of the same stone as the wall around it, with many windows.

Winter was welcomed inside by an array of servants that came to attend to him and his horse, and then he was sucked into a landscape of gleaming marble and frescoes of angels. He hadn’t been to the palace since sitting in on the Council meeting with his father, and that had been seven years ago. A different life.

He ran a hand over the staircase banister as he ascended, wool gloves gliding lightly over it. The invitation was open to all councilors to live in the palace for as long as they pleased. This could become a home, if he wanted.

The heels of his boots clicked against the shiny floors, a hesitating sound that echoed for rooms and rooms and forever. It did not feel like a home. But neither did anywhere else.

A salon was being tidied by a handful of quiet servants as he passed through—a room just as ornate and glittering as anywhere else, here. Harsh on the eyes. Everything possessed some sort of gold-tinged pattern, from the wallpaper to the upholstery to the lay of the floorboards. A fierce glittering. This room, however ornate, was a bit destroyed.

Chairs lay overturned in the remains of a scuffle, or perhaps careless dancing. Playing cards and other bits scattered the tables, strewn also with remnants of pastries and candies. Wineglasses sat about in various states, some on their sides in puddles of champagne, some resting in the windowsills by burned-down candles.

Flowers wilted miserably as decoration. White roses.

Such a party. Winter had not been invited.

The king was snubbing him, it was obvious. Of course, perhaps they were simply not close enough friends to warrant Winter’s invitation to an intimate gathering, but if that were the case, such an arrangement was tactless. A king should make an effort to befriend all of the nobility, especially the families of the councilors.

Perhaps the affair had been organized at the last minute. It wasn’t as though Winter had any interest in being the king’s friend.

In the center of the largest table, the one most thoroughly covered in game pieces and cards, was a shoe, shiny black and embellished with silver, sitting as if to be bet upon.

Arranged on a side table was one of many wilting bouquets, which a servant grabbed to dispose of as soon as Winter’s gaze came to it. But its absence only revealed the divan beside it, and as Winter continued walking past, he noticed a boy sprawled upon it. His face was turned away, pressed into a pillow.

He wore a shirt of a silver, lacy fabric with billowing sleeves cinched at delicate wrists, and there were rings on all of his fingers, gleaming in the mid-morning light. Winter’s eyes traced the slender line of his back, where his bronze hair fell in waves, the silver of his shirt bringing out faint coppery hues.

He was wearing only one shoe.

This was ridiculous. Winter shook his head with a fluttering roll of his eyes, and caught up with the one leading him through the room he was meant to be following to his lodgings.

And he arrived there, soon. The doors opened to reveal a sitting room with a few chairs and two couches and big windows and four dull walls masquerading as anything but. It was hideous and terrible. And quiet.

The adjoining bedroom was larger than his own in Westgarth, but something about it felt claustrophobic. The bed was neatly made and had not the appearance of ever having been slept in, which surely wasn’t a fault, but felt sterile. He removed a glove to run a hand over the blanket, disturbing its neatness just faintly. It felt soft.

But it didn’t matter how nice the furnishings were or how soft the blankets. This was a prison.

Winter leaned his head sleepily against the windowsill in the bedroom, staring out at the view of the dark gray ocean. He felt cold, chilled from his ride to the palace, but he hadn’t felt so cold in the tavern with Grey, or even in the alley with the Robin Lorena girl and the falling snow. There was a small fireplace in the sitting room, but he doubted having it lit would make a difference.

Isobel would arrive soon, unless she already had and was elsewhere at the moment, though he didn’t notice her trunks anywhere. He hadn’t wanted her to come.

But of course, she had accepted the invitation. She always spoke of how she enjoyed partaking in court life whenever she had the chance, how fun it was to dress up and gossip and play games.

It was good that she wasn’t with him at the moment, because that would mean having to converse at length with her, and he wasn’t sure he could converse at any rate with anyone.

There was an hour until he was due to meet the king.

He let his eyes drift shut.

“…for Council. Your Majesty? _Your Majesty_.”

Ava came awake to an unhappy voice addressing him. He made a mumbling sound and tucked his face a bit more into the silk pillow, though its beading scratched against his cheek. A thick fog wrapped around his head. Too much wine.

“Have you been here all night?” the voice continued.

There was only one who would demand such, and he recognized that tone far before he recognized the voice itself. He rolled over, squinting at the late morning light that had come to fill the parlor. How wretched…

He sat slowly as his head spun. He felt as though he’d been shot. “What?” Perhaps he would vomit. Perhaps not. It was highly debatable.

“The Council meets in a mere hour,” said Reverie. “You’ve nearly slept straight on through it. I had to look all over for you, until I caught word of the party.”

The party. Yes, the party. His memory had not been erased by all of the champagne—he could quite well remember crashing into furniture while dancing with a girl… Which girl? No, he could not remember everything. He mostly remembered that it had not been a spectacular affair. Only a handful of his alleged friends drinking and gambling and acting moronic.

He frowned at the destroyed room. Animals…

“You’re not my mother,” he mumbled, while Reverie barked at one of the cleaning servants that they had dropped something.

Reverie looked down at Ava again and set her jaw. “Indeed I am not. You are far too petulant to have been raised by me.”

His frown did not lift, even if her words were meant as a joke. His own mother had been his only true confidant, before everything changed. Before the fire had turned the royal library to ashes and cinders along with her body. It had been called an accident. But Ava knew better. Mages were meant to burn, his father had said.

No… It was much too early and he was much too nauseated for thinking about those things. Or for thinking at all. Or for things.

“Leave me,” Ava said with a wave of his hand, and Reverie did, her red skirts swirling as she turned like a wave of dark blood.

For a moment, as he was left with the servants, watching as they righted furniture and collected glasses, he simply rested his cheek on his drawn-up knees. The dream had not come to him again, last night, nor had it any night since the first, despite his constant thinking of it. It was impossible to forget.

The boy with the hair of ice and eyes of blue fire…

The dark ravens among the snow where he lay dead.

Ava closed his eyes, and took several deep breaths before he eventually wandered from the salon. An hour.

So he returned to his rooms sleepily, and bathed sleepily, and proceeded to don clothing more suitable for meeting with stale elders than partying. He looked so drab in modest shades of cream and dark blue.

As he sat on the fur spread by the fireplace, he combed his hair, encouraging it to dry faster in the warm air, though he didn’t think it was helping much. He set the comb down.

He lifted his hand, looking at his palm. The wounds from three nights ago were healing, but besides that, the rest of it was covered in scars. White lines criss-crossed and marked him for what he was, marring his skin. He was a blood mage to anyone who saw. But to always wear gloves would arouse suspicion, especially after having a mother known for being a mage. He simply had to be careful. Not that he thought anyone would shout out what they suspected seeing.

Magic did not always require blood.

He stared at the white scars, smooth, intersecting lines like a map, with a scabbed-over cut slicing through them. He thought of warmth, thought of the smoky heat that was always sitting dormant in his blood, waiting. And the farther away he left his mind, the more that heat rose, until beneath the scar tissue, the veins of his hand began to glow golden. Not blue, nor red like blood. It was a pale, angelic ochre, luminescent. It traveled up his wrist, and ended somewhere along his forearm beneath his shirtsleeve.

And then there was flame.

It flickered from his palm, brighter than the fireplace, pure white and brilliant. Ava studied it, the way it danced just above his skin—he never understood how it didn’t burn him. But magic was strange. He had studied it since he was fourteen, and yet it was still so elusive. He knew that fire was magic’s most raw form, considered by the ancients to be starlight itself.

Blood magic was dangerous magic. Dirty magic. _Real_ magic, unlike the Havette family’s affinity for alleged potions and spells, as everyone had whispered about for generations. Ava’s magic was closer to the Great Mage, Henri Mercerie, who Ava’s own father had banished from Eranthis when Ava had still been a young child.

His hair was as dry as it was going to get.

He stood, and slid his socked feet into a pair of simple brown shoes, and pulled on a jacket of the same shade. They preferred him looking modest and respectable. To conform to these desires was Reverie’s suggestion, though Ava yearned to rebel. But the Council complained of his frivolity in all aspects of life, dress included, and it was better to keep their favor.

Especially when the kingdom was turning against him.

It did not stop him from keeping all of his rings, and all of his earrings, however. They had to remember who he was, if the crown was not enough of a reminder.

The guards stationed outside of his rooms now trailed him down the hall—Ava had learned long ago to ignore the sound of multiple footsteps that followed him around the palace. He was meant to arrive last to Council, after everyone else had settled, but he didn’t feel like waiting any longer. He could be early if he wanted to be early. Besides, August Havette’s place would be taken by his son, today, and Ava was curious to meet him.

He and Winter Havette had been acquainted long ago, of course, merely through brief introductions in boyhood, but really, Ava could scarcely even remember Winter Havette’s face.

Ava could ask him to stay after Council for chatting, or perhaps find him later if he chose to stay in the palace. But would he find that strange?

It would simply be nice to have a friend apart from his advisor and all of the pretenders. And Ava was only a year younger than him. What was he like? Did he like poetry, as Ava did? Or perhaps music, or something interesting?

As Ava walked down the hall, however, he was distracted by the sound of weeping.

It came from beyond the shut doors of Reverie’s rooms, the muffled sounds of a girl crying and Reverie’s voice murmuring condolences. But he couldn’t make out any words. Who in their right mind sought comfort in _Reverie Quintesse?_ Perhaps the girl had crossed her and was being scolded.

Ava ignored it. He entered the Council chamber, and was pleased to find it empty.

The meeting Winter had attended in the past had not required his participation beyond the exchange of greetings. He had spent the rest of it daydreaming, gazing out of the windows as the King’s Council talked of boring things. It had been before King Emile died.

The King’s Council was a small group of nobles who owned lands across the kingdom, two from each province: Salvya, Westgarth, and Hellebore. Winter’s father had owned around half of Westgarth.

That was not quite the case, anymore.

From either side of the door to the Council chamber, the guards stepped aside to allow Winter in. And as the doors came open, his heart suddenly fluttered uncomfortably. He was going to meet with the king.

The room itself was rather small—smaller than he remembered, and octagonal. There were plentiful windows with pale curtains drawn back to reveal the snowy sky and the dark ocean. A long, mahogany table took up most of the room, and sitting at the head of it, looking up when the doors opened, was the boy who had been asleep in the salon.

The boy who would die among ravens.

Winter bowed briefly to him, and entered.

King Ava looked different when he was not dressed in a flouncy shirt of silver lace—his clothing seemed far more modest for the meeting. He also looked different when he was not lying on a bed of snow, nor surrounded by corvids signaling his death. He said nothing to Winter, and so by rules of rank, Winter said nothing to him as he took his father’s seat: closest to the king’s left, and marked with the family symbol of the rose carved into the table.

And so the room was silent, smelling faintly of the smoke that trailed from the dark pink cigarette between the king’s fingers.

Winter pretended to be busy sorting through paper and ink, and stole glances at the king from beneath his eyelashes. Slowly, he pieced him together. His hair, though appearing a bit damp, was a dark, coppery gold, the color which Winter had tried meticulously to recreate in the painting. He wore a thin crown of carefully sculpted leaves, accented with rubies. He was everything and nothing like he’d appeared in the vision.

“It’s been snowing a lot, lately.”

The king’s voice was a murmur when he finally spoke, and Winter looked up abruptly to find that he was now leaning on one elbow, with his chin resting on his hand, while the other lifted his cigarette to his lips. If Winter didn’t know better, he would have thought the king sounded shy.

“Yes.”

“Did you have a decent journey?”

He felt paralyzed by this trivial conversation. This was the king, speaking to him. He was talking about the weather. Winter knew he was going to die.

“Decent,” Winter replied, blinking several times. “I went on horseback.” A needless detail.

He watched the king’s eyebrows raise. They were a bit arched in general, a bit sharp, framing light-lashed green eyes.

“Horseback,” he echoed thoughtfully. “Do you like riding?”

“Yes, I do.”

“You are early, this afternoon.”

Winter pressed his lips together for a moment’s hesitation. And then he said quietly, “As are you.”

There was a smile playing about the king’s mouth, suddenly. “Eager?”

Did that imply that the king himself had been eager? Why was he early to the meeting, if the king of all people was supposed to arrive last? This entire conversation felt like some kind of test, the king’s gaze on him soft, yet scrutinizing. There was something behind it.

“Tell me, if you will, Your Majesty,” Winter said, “do you enjoy these meetings?”

He didn’t quite care about being perceived as improper by a nineteen-year-old king. He could execute him, if he wished.

The king’s eyes strayed from him, at last, and he flicked the ash off his cigarette into a porcelain dish. “Everyone else must be late,” he murmured, which was not an answer. “I’m terribly sorry to hear about your father’s untimely departure. How does it feel to be taking his place here? I imagine it must be strange. Truthfully, I cannot wait to see the reactions of the others, as I’m sure they will give you their most heartfelt condolences. It will be unbearable, and hilarious. You will find they are so tiresome…”

It was impossible to tell if the king meant any of what he said at all. Or if he meant it to be cruel. Or if he meant it simply as a joke.

“Do you often ramble so?”

“Do you often forget to whom you speak?” He took a drag of his cigarette, and studied Winter’s eyes. He had a soft voice.

“Your Majesty,” Winter added.

The king’s smile grew, though it did not look particularly friendly. “Do you smoke?” He nudged a little case in Winter’s direction. It was painted with whirling patterns with an angel woman on the lid, with dreamily gazing eyes and both sizeable breasts exposed.

“Lovely case…”

“It’s from a friend,” the king explained, with a little wince at the friend’s expense. “Personally, I find cigarettes to be a blessing. Have one.”

Winter had never found it easy to turn down a cigarette, so he took the ridiculous case and flipped it open to reveal a neat line of pink and blue cigarettes within.

“Mind that the blue ones may make one drowsy,” the king was saying. “They’re laced with nocturne.” His voice was close, and Winter realized this act of exchanging cigarettes had made them lean toward one another over the corner of the table.

Why did the king have nocturne? The herb was often used in small doses for the treatment of nerves, or in heavier doses for pain. Or recreation.

Winter considered the cigarettes, but the door on the opposite end of the room opened, and he snapped the case shut without taking anything. A woman in a red dress entered, and she looked familiar, but he couldn’t quite remember if he knew her or not.

“Ah, Lord Winter Havette,” she said, and smiled, and then he remembered.

Reverie Quintesse: an advisor of the king. His only one, after the scandalous execution of the others, according to Winter’s father. She was supposedly the daughter of a noble family with a thousand other sisters that looked exactly like her, whose names all began with the letter _R._

“It is so interesting to see you again,” said Reverie, taking her seat across the table from Winter at the king’s right. “The last I saw, you were merely a boy.”

Winter was fairly certain the last time she’d seen him had been only a year ago, at a ball. He felt a flare of resentment.

“I must offer you my sincerest condolences regarding your father,” she continued, and did not sound sincere at all. But he doubted anyone said anything very sincerely in the palace.

Still, he thanked her, and exchanged a glance with the king, who was pressing his lips together against a smirk as what he had said of the Council’s heartfelt condolences was proven correct. Winter couldn’t help but smile a bit in return, looking away.

Soon after Reverie came the councilors.

There were five others, who Winter knew of only vaguely. There was Ceclyn Édouard—the father of Grey, along with Edmunde Faire, Cal Servet, Elvira Mithe, and Jamet Quil. The men were dressed in accordance with court fashion, despite variations in color and print: sleek pants to match sleek jackets, with starched shirts and waistcoats with shiny buttons. Lady Mithe’s gown was emerald green.

Winter felt suddenly out of place, dressed in black.

The Council took their seats around the table, all glancing at Winter and murmuring among one another, until their curious gazes turned pitying, and he caught the first comment of _‘that poor boy.’_

The king was simply smoking, and watching everything unfold with a remote look, as if watching fish swimming around an aquarium.

“Lord Faire,” he said finally. His voice was still soft. It must have been that way by nature. “I regret being unable to meet with you yesterday evening. I am afraid I was otherwise engaged.”

The man in question had thinning hair and spectacles low on his nose. “Yes, well,” he said, “I had wanted merely to speak with His Majesty about the… rebellions, which only continue to grow. It is absolutely vital we act to put an end to these uprisings before they gain any more strength.”

Oh.

King Ava rolled his eyes. “Yes, I have been made aware of such in the uncomfortably recent past.” There was a bite to the words. Had it really been so recent that he had learned of the revolution at all? No, that wasn’t possible. “Everyone in the kingdom, it appears, wants me dead. Everyone in the kingdom wanted my father and grandfather dead, as well, did they not? It has never become a cause for concern. Your worry is pointless, Lord Faire. The _rebellions_ are pointless. Simply… games for children. They will tire soon, or be snuffed out.”

What did he think, then, of the previous king being murdered by a servant? His own father? King Emile’s death forced him onto the throne as a mere boy of fifteen. Winter doubted the king truly felt so flippant regarding the rebellions. He put on quite a show of indifference, but there was something in him that seemed drawn taut.

“That is true, Your Majesty,” Lord Faire said. “Eranthis is strong, and the rebels are weak. It should be easy to stop them—we need only a plan. We must consider—”

“There is nothing to be considered,” said the king. He gestured with a delicate, pale hand, and Winter watched all of his rings glitter in the daylight. “The peasant rebellions are small and irrelevant. Although… it is curious.” There was something strange about the palm of his hand, but he set it back onto the table before Winter could examine it. “Even the aristocracy seems to be turning against me, now. Why, I wonder? Do you seek more power for yourselves? I shall tell you now, the king is the most powerful player. So, I suggest you abandon those greedy hopes, if you have them, and spread word to others to do the same. After all, we are all aware of what happened to my old advisors, who thought they had power over me.”

But as he spoke, Reverie leaned toward him across the corner of the table, and whispered something rapid. It sounded almost chastising, as if she were scolding him for interrupting the councilor. Something about it made Winter recoil.

The king appeared to ignore her entirely. “But I forget myself,” he said. “I would hate to get into all of this nonsense without first welcoming the newest member of our delightful Council: Lord Winter Havette.”

The sound of his name on the king’s lips sent a shiver through him.

While the others gave him their obligatory greetings, a few mentioning their sorrow over his father, Winter merely offered brief responses. But his focus was more drawn to the king, who was watching him, smirking and raising his cigarette to his lips again.

“What do _you_ think of the rebellions? About the mysterious _Rosemonde?_ ” the king asked, once the welcomings had finished. His eyes met Winter’s when he spoke, and Winter pretended his blood had not just run cold.

“I think Rosemonde is a coward.”

“Cowardly, or perhaps very smart,” the king continued. Ash drifted to the table. “He thinks he can hide forever, but in due time, he will be discovered. And then, I will have he and all of his followers put to an end.”

“Lord Havette,” said Ceclyn Édouard. The title felt uncomfortable. Lord Havette was Winter’s father.

Ceclyn Édouard was a thick, dark-bearded man, who was reclining casually in his chair. There was a quality to his face that hinted he might have been handsome at one point, some terrible similarity to Grey, but he was around Henri’s age, and the years had done him poorly.

“Have you further information on the rebellion?” he asked. “These things always seem to begin with the youth, after all, but my son claims to have heard nothing.”

“Your proper son, or your son the pirate?” the king asked before Winter could answer.

Embarrassment flickered briefly in Lord Édouard’s face. “Lyndsey,” he said. “My only son.”

“I’m afraid I know nothing more,” Winter answered before this petty discussion could continue. He took a breath. “I know Rosemonde is a coward who thinks he can hide forever. He puts lives at risk, all while he hides away in secrecy and supposed safety. Surely, word will get out, or he will slip up, and we will find him.”

King Ava was smirking. “How passionate,” he said. “You are exactly what I need.”

“He cannot hide forever,” Lord Édouard agreed. “I dare say Rosemonde could be any one of us. Who’s to say _I_ am not Rosemonde?”

He chuckled heartily, and it was the infectious sort of laughter that spread to the others around the table. Winter smiled along with them, but his discomfort only grew, like a coil winding slowly in his chest. For a moment, he felt like wondering who Rosemonde was, indeed.

In the low lamplight, Winter lay fully dressed still on top of the blankets of the bed, his head against one of the many pillows. In his fingers, he turned his silver wedding ring over and over, a persistent habit.

Isobel was in a ruffled nightgown lying across from him.

He could feel her gaze, but he looked only at the ring, tiredness weighing heavily on him. But he wasn’t ready to sleep, yet. Not in this strange bed, with its suffocatingly soft blankets and alien coldness. Not with Isobel.

“They had no idea,” he said in the quiet darkness. “Absolutely none at all…”

It was surprising, though it shouldn’t have been. He had felt so sure something would have given him away, as if his treachery were a thick scent lingering on him. But instead, he had laughed with the councilors, even as he hated them, and they remained none the wiser.

Not even King Ava.

“And how was the king?” Isobel asked.

Winter stopped turning the ring over, holding it still. “Strange,” he decided, and began to turn it again. “He was not at all what I expected.”

“Oh, no? Not some terrible little fop? I’ve imagined him round-cheeked and terribly boyish. Dressed in the most gaudy of fashions. Unkempt hair like the nest of a bird. Or rat!” He could hear her smile as she spoke.

“Not at all,” he said.

There had been nothing _terrible_ about the king. He had seemed not boyish, but simply youthful. Vibrant. His skin was smooth and unmarred, unweathered, even as his face itself was rather pointed and angular with a strong jaw. His hair was not the monstrosity it was sometimes spoken of, but rather disheveled in gentle waves that fell past his shoulders and down his back.

He was undeniably, unyieldingly perfect. How could such evil and cruelty rest in one like him?

“Well, then, what _was_ he like?” Isobel asked.

“He was not terrible to look at,” Winter murmured, though the king’s clothes had been quite drab. “But of course, his demeanor ruined everything. He was quite rude and insolent. It was as if a dog had been made king.”

“You must be exhausted.”

He shrugged a shoulder.

Isobel shifted forward on the bed, and his gaze flitted up from the ring to her face. And then she kissed him.

He should have seen such an action coming, and ducked his head or something, but he hadn’t, and now he had no choice but to return the kiss briefly, chastely.

But she continued it, lips pressing with more intention into his, and it only made her presence far too real, too close. She was everywhere at once. Her scent, her lips, her soft breath, her hand that came to rest on his arm. He waited for it to end, but every second was an eternity in a torrent of sensation, and she seemed to have no plans for stopping.

So Winter gave in, and turned his head away first.

He made a quiet, noncommittal sound as he sat, tucking his hair behind one ear and not looking at her.

“What?” she asked.

He would have to do it eventually.

They had shared a bed once before, on their wedding night as tradition dictated, but that was over a year ago. They would have to have children. It was cruel to Isobel to ignore the fact—it would only reflect poorly upon her in the eyes of society, as if being married to Winter Havette didn’t already do that. Winter would simply have to get over his aversion to her. Eventually. Not tonight.

“I’m going to go read for a while,” he said, standing.

And it was over.

He escaped into the adjoining parlor, where there were only a few books that were all boring. Instead of bothering with any of them, he collapsed onto the divan and closed his eyes.

The sun was bright overhead.

The warm air of midsummer…

The long grass of the wildflower hills brushed against his legs as he ran, up past his knees where his socks ended. He seemed to fly, weightless as a bird. Underfoot, the earth was heavy and solid. He wrestled his father to the ground.

The man was twice Winter’s height and twice his weight and should have been much faster and stronger, all things considered, but Winter still took him down, victorious. Laughter bubbled up from him, and his father chuckled, too, congratulating him on his heroic success.

But a shadow fell across the grass, and Winter tumbled off onto the ground, looking up to find his mother approaching, her face shaded by a parasol. She was going to scold him for running about in his best clothes. The sun burned behind her head.

Winter opened his eyes, and rolled over onto his back to gaze up at the dark ceiling as the clock ticked quietly.


End file.
